


For Whom The Bell Tolls

by MinteyArchive (Mintey)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Army, Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - War, M/M, Soldier Castiel, Soldier Dean, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-08-11
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:02:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintey/pseuds/MinteyArchive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel Novak enlists in the army with the intentions of being a dutiful soldier, faithful to his country.  Dean Winchester is a medical student who feels the need to do something good with his life and to help others. However, in a war-torn country, relationships are short, lies are common, and hearts are broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not all of the characters that will be appearing are tagged, only the most important are, so there may be cameos from others.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~This is a work in progress, meaning even I have not finish writing it, although the ending is planned out. Chapters will be posted approximately every 1-2 weeks.~~
> 
>  
> 
> **Story on hold until further notice! Sorry for the inconvenience, but I had to drop this story due to school, and I've since forgotten a lot of the plot bunnies that were floating around, so until I re-outline and find the time to continue, this won't be updated!**
> 
>  
> 
> This is a war and medical fic, so there will be violence and some graphic descriptions - just a heads up. Set in a fictional universe, meaning it is a fictional war.

“Don’t worry, Sam, I’ll be home in time for Christmas,” said Dean into his phone. “If you don’t stop whining, I’ll tell mom and dad that you get a scholarship for lounging around - with extra weeks of vacation.”

“Jerk,” came the reply.

“Bitch.”

During the sleepless weeks of finals, Dean Winchester often wondered who had it worse, his Stanford Pre-Law brother, or himself, a medical student. Either way, it was almost Christmas break, and he’d get to see his freakish giant of a brother in less than a few days. Smiling at the thought, he hefted his backpack over his shoulder, getting ready to leave his dorm room.

“Listen, I’ve got to go, I want to try and study for a bit before my last exam, so I’ll see you in a while?” The end of his goodbye came out as a question, but luckily Sam understood the unspoken promise.

“Don’t worry, I’ll sit right on the front porch step until you get home,” Sam said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude, that’s just creepy.” With that, he hung up the phone and made his way into the hallway. Rushing down the stairs, he almost tripped twice and had to pick up scattered papers. He shoved past the heavy wooden doors at the entrance to the dorm room, recoiling at the frosty gust of air.

Outside, snow was falling lightly, but no amount of cold precipitation was about to bring down his mood. Despite the crappy weather, students littered the campus, some friends playing snow football, others holding hot chocolate in one hand and a lover’s hand in the opposite. Dean jogged across the lawn, pulling his leather jacket tighter around his body. From the courtyard commons, Dean could just barely make out his treasured ’67 Impala, parked under a street lamp a few blocks over. _Only one more final_ , he kept reminding himself, _and then it’s just you, Baby, and the open road._

Three hours later, Dean wasn’t feeling as cocky as before. He had forgotten about half of the organs in the cardiovascular system, and Dean was sure he had confused coronary circulation and systematic circulation. He pitied anyone who ever needed him to do heart surgery, because Dean was pretty sure the poor guy would bleed out before Dean could even fully open the chest cavity.

When Dean finally convinced himself that moping around his dorm room and waiting for the professors to grade papers was a totally useless hobby, he threw a few articles of clothes into his duffle, grabbed his laptop, and walked eagerly to Baby. His car could have been on a postcard, with the snow frosting over the black hood and the streetlight casting an eerie shadow over the Impala. Inside, the cassette player blared Led Zeppelin when he turned the key in the ignition, and never had Dean been happier to hear Robert Plant’s voice. Too much droning teachers, not enough screaming guitars, he decided.

The interstate was slick and crowded with other homebound college students rushing to see their families, yet everyone managed to go a decent speed, and Dean was making good time. Somewhere in the middle of Nevada, he encountered a highway with enough salt and dirt to make a convincing replica of the Great Sand dunes. Utah had been lucky enough to sit in the donut hole of the storm, making the air brisk and the sun blinding in his rearview, and Colorado was muddled with detours due to the once again impending storm. After what had become a dull drone of double yellow lines and black asphalt, Dean was at last driving on the familiar highways of Kansas. He pulled onto his street sometime around morning, and he could make out Sam’s car as being parked in the driveway already.

Dean got out of his car and stared up at the night sky. Shrugging off the feeling that things wouldn’t feel this serene for a long time, Dean headed towards the cozy white house he called home. Its blue shutters were chipping paint, and the lawn could probably use a good mow, given that tips of brownish green were struggling to break free of the white blanket of snow. Inside, the lights were all out, but the front porch light was still on in anticipation of the older son’s arrival home. In an attempt not to wake anyone, Dean closed the door quietly, and even made an effort to untie his boots rather than flinging them off as he usually did. Well, that is, he would have removed his shoes, if he hadn’t been bear hugged by Sasquatch.

“Dean!” cried Sam, throwing his arms around his older brother. “God, I missed you. And, I managed to restrain myself from waiting outside.”

Chuckling, Dean wriggled out of Sam’s playful headlock and said, “Missed you too, little brother.”

Stepping back, Dean took in the sight of Sammy. He still wore that same childish grin Dean had come to know and love, and his hair was a bit longer than before, but Sam was still the same as Dean remembered. Except, hold on, something was off… “Are you wearing perfume?” Dean asked incredulously.

Sam scratched his head, a slow blush creeping over his face. “No… I… uhh…”

“Sam, what’s wrong?” came a groggy voice from the top of the stairs. Dean watched as one foot, two feet came down. Suspiciously feminine feet, which were followed by some nice legs and a killer ass, if Dean did say so himself.

“Dean, I’d like you to meet Jess. My girlfriend,” he finally managed.

Dean had to admit, Sam had done pretty well for himself. She seemed like a nice girl, if three words were any indication. Jess, as Sam had called her, was gorgeous by every standard, with wavy blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and a nice curvy shape to her body. To top it off, she was wearing a low-cut shirt that accentuated… two of her better features. All Dean could say though, was, “Smurfs, cool. Love the Smurfs,” which earned him a not-so-subtle stomp on the foot from Sam.

“Hi,” Jess said, “I’m, well, Jess. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Dean suspiciously eyed Sam, and catching the glance, she hurried to add, “Nothing bad, no! Unless you think embarrassing childhood stories about farting donkeys are bad.”

“You were four, Sam,” hissed Dean. “C’mon!”

By now, the brothers’ commotion had woken up both John and Mary, both of whom hugged Dean tightly, gushing about how proud they were of him, and asking endless questions about how he felt after his second-to-last semester of medical school. Dean answered as politely as he could after driving for nearly a day straight, and eventually insisted that he needed to reacquaint himself with his childhood bed. Giving his room a quick once-over, Dean was satisfied that his parents hadn’t gone through his treasured record collection, or taken down his Metallica poster. Not even bothering to shed his jeans and pizza-stained t-shirt, he fell against his pillow. Dean knew he would regret his lack of pajamas tomorrow morning, but his eyelids threatened to close any second, and who was he to refuse?

* * *

Half a country away, Castiel Novak was hunched under a desk lamp, going through his psychiatry flashcards just once more. In reality, it had been “once more” for the past one hundred times, and the sun’s rays were threatening to peek through the veil of a darkened sky. It was fall semester of his senior year, and Castiel was not about to lose the position of class Valedictorian, especially at Cornell of all schools. Shucking on a jacket, he grabbed his messenger bag and headed out to get a coffee at whatever little café happened to be open to desperate college students at this time of night. Err… morning.

He gave no notice to the clouds gathering in the sky, figuring that the East Coast was about to get hit with yet another bout of sleet or some other crappy mix. That’s the way it had been for a while now: no fairytale white snow and only slushy winter paraphernalia. Castiel hoped that maybe when he graduated, he could move somewhere nice and warm, where the sun would shine and the only precipitation would be tropical rain. For now, he was stuck with cold nipping at his reddening ears as he pushed open the door to the shop. The bell rang when the door clanged shut, and the man behind the counter startled from the half-standing, half-sleeping-on-the-counter position he’d been sporting.

“Cas, bro! How’s it!” shouted Gabriel, recognizing his younger brother. Gabriel had taken up two jobs to support Castiel’s college tuition. One of which, as Castiel had forgotten, was here. Normally, Castiel would be feeling guilty for letting Gabriel pay for his college life, but now he wished only Gabriel wasn’t so loud. His brain had apparently decided to take up human torture for a hobby, as it was now throbbing painfully in his skull. Not to mention, that nickname drove him crazy, and he hoped it was just another faze Gabe was going through. It was still better than Balthazar’s nickname, “Cassy,” though, so Castiel merely grimaced and waved a hello.

“If you’re not too busy reading those boring textbooks, there’s a party at Balthazar’s tonight,” Gabriel said, handing Castiel a cup of coffee. “Lots of booze and lovely ladies.”

“No thank you.” Castiel hadn’t quite figured out to tell Gabriel that he preferred guys over girls, but he was fairly sure his brother had already noticed. “I would like to go home instead.”

Gabriel smirked. “Sure you’re not just trying to avoid getting laid?”

Groaning, Castiel turned his back on his brother and headed out the door, when he heard one last jab at Castiel’s relationship status, or lack thereof. “I think it’s that ugly trench coat that’s keeping you from getting laid. Definitely lose it, bro.”

Castiel frowned, glancing down at his apparel in the process. He saw nothing wrong with the loose blue tie and white dress shirt he was wearing under the trench coat. Besides, if it repelled girls, that was all the better, because truth be told, he was deathly afraid of them, especially those that would get all touchy-feely and up in his face. Castiel shrugged off the comment. The trench coat was his final reminder of home, after all. He wasn’t about to tell Gabriel this, but the trench coat was something he’d found in his mother’s old room as a child, before Michael insisted on finding a new place so Dad wouldn’t have to cope with haunting memories of his dead wife. So he’d kept the coat as one last reminder of his mother, before moving on to a new home with Michael and Lucifer as makeshift parents.

Castiel was looking forward to visiting his siblings, even though he knew that their home would probably be worse than some random drunken frat party. Michael and Lucifer were probably bickering again, Dad was away on some sort of business, and Anna had taken it upon herself to move in with her boyfriend, which was widely unpopular among the Novak siblings. Granted, Anna did not have the best history with boys, but Castiel had actually met this companion, and he seemed nice enough. Gabriel and Castiel had taken advantage of the Novak family turmoil to buy a small townhouse in Ithaca, so that Castiel wouldn’t have to commute to college. It was a nice arrangement, because Anna was happy, Gabriel and Castiel were happy, and Michael and Lucifer were happy… duking it out by themselves.

Even though his family had its quarrels, Castiel still loved them all. He didn’t blame Gabriel for moving out to avoid the awkward family dinners and frequent fights. After all, those quarrels were the reason for Castiel’s psychiatry major in the first place. He wanted to help fix people, and didn’t think he could handle being a surgeon or “actual” doctor, so to him, helping people’s mental health was the next best thing.  Besides, it wasn't as if he planned on having an actual career, anyway. He had wanted to enlist in the army, but Gabriel wouldn't hear it, insisting that Castiel at least finish college.

With the support for the current war dwindling, and troops dropping like flies, more men were needed every day, causing the drafts to be more frequent with fewer days in between. Castiel had started to convince himself that enlisting without Gabriel's knoweldge was the only choice.  Finals ended today, after all, and Castiel figured he could always continue his education when he returned home...

Shrugging off the distracting thoughts, Castiel gulped down his coffee and made his way to the academic buildings. He stifled a yawn. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

 

Dean loved being home. There was always warm food in the morning, and he didn’t have to do his own laundry. Best of all, he got to sleep in. Sleeping, Dean found, was quite hard when Sasquatch and his girlfriend were downstairs making both a racket and breakfast. The enticing smell of fresh-brewed coffee inevitably found its way to Dean’s nostrils. Dean groaned and threw back the covers, trying his best not to fall out of bed. His jeans from last night clung to his legs, and by the time Dean had managed to peel them off, there were imprints from the seams along his calves. He threw on some sweatpants and started down the wooden staircase, trying not to trip along the way.

“Good morning,” Jess said when Dean arrived in the family kitchen. After noticing his disheveled stay of array, she placed a cup of coffee in his hands and flattened his hair. “You’re a mess.” Sam entered the room, carrying two empty plates. “You too, Sam,” she added, reaching out to straighten his tie.

“Sorry that we ate without you, Dean. I promised Becky that I could help at the enlistment office today,” he said. Noting Dean’s confusion, Sam clarified his statement.

“The draft’s today, so there’s bound to be a lot of men stopping in and trying to file paperwork.”

Dean almost dropped his cup. He had forgotten that since the conflict in Europe had grown more intense, the government had decided to re-instate the draft policies. During the last few, he had been too busy with school to bother sitting in front of the TV, so he had managed to scrounge up ten dollars to pay a friend to watch for him. Luckily, he hadn’t been picked for any of the previous ones. “Shit, is that today already?”

“Yeah, dumbo,” said Sam, teasingly nudging his arm. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. Take care of Jess for me!” He planted a quick kiss on Jess’s lips before bolting out the door.

“It must be really nerve-racking,” said Jess. “Having to enlist and all. And then waiting to see if you’re next to go over there and get shot at? No thanks.”

“That’s part of the reason I want to be a doctor,” offered Dean as he took a sip from the mug, making a face when it scorched his tongue. “Half of the men going over probably don’t even know why we’re fighting, and they’re over there dying, while I sit and watch. I can’t just let that happen.” Dean hunched his shoulders, feeling embarrassed at his confession. He brought the mug up to his lips again in a failed attempt to hide his growing blush. “So… yeah. Doctor,” he finished lamely.

“I think that’s really nice, Dean. I’m sure you’ll make a wonderful doctor. Only one semester left, right?” Dean nodded, feeling a sudden bout of panic wash over him. What if he made a terrible doctor? What if he failed out of medical school? What if he didn’t even make it through the last semester? He was about to have a full-blown anxiety attack over the kitchen sink when he felt Jess tug at his t-shirt. “Relax,” she said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Let’s find something to do and keep your mind off of things.”

As it turned out, Jess was extraordinary at keeping Dean occupied for the next few hours. Dean took Jess down town, and she dragged him into every other shop, insisting that if his wardrobe was anything like Sam’s repetitive choices of plaid (which it was), then he needed new clothes. Jess inquired more about medical school, and Dean asked how she and Sam had met. Occasionally, Jess would hand something to Dean to try on, and he would trudge into the dressing room. Sometimes Jess would try something on and ask for Dean’s opinion, only to ignore it and go with her original thoughts anyway.

At shop number twenty-something, Jess had asked about Dean’s Baby, which he was more than happy to offer details about. Jess listened attentively as she flipped through a tie rack, and Dean was more than happy to sit on the leather chair in the corner while he offered details of his car. He was only just breaching the tip of the iceberg when Jess interrupted him.

“Dean, as much as I would love to hear about your car’s engine, and as much as you would like to buy this tie-” Jess placed a green and white striped tie in Dean’s hands. “-we need to get a move on if we don’t want to miss the draft.” She gave him a light shove in the direction of the checkout line to accentuate her point. He stared at the tie in his hands as if it had personally offended him. “It brings out your eyes,” she assured him.

Mary already had the television on and was preparing sandwiches for lunch when Dean and Jess walked through the front door. She shot Dean an apologetic look and offered him a seat on the couch. “Don’t worry honey, I heard one of my work friends say that the odds of getting drafted are pretty low. You’ll be fine.” Mary ushered Jess into the kitchen, leaving Dean alone to wring his hands in anticipation in front of the television.

The sitcom on the screen faded to a black background before white letters appeared, announcing that the station is “bringing special programming for this important occasion.” Dean forced himself to sit down, worried that his legs might give out if he continued to pace a trail into the already worn-out carpet. The newscasters begin with announcing information from the warfront, stating that the fighting continued on, yet nothing seemed to be getting accomplished. Then, they began calling numbers.

Dean panicked through the first thirty birthdays. Slightly calmer than before, Dean had stood up to get a beer from the fridge when he heard it. “January Twenty-Fourth,” said the television. “Number thirty four.” The world became a blur, and Dean drowned out everything around him. He barely registered the fact that Mary had come to sit down on the floor next to him (when did even he sit down?) and was now comforting him with hugs and assurances that, “you won’t even be called in for training for at least two more months.”

Dean didn’t know how long he stayed with his head in his hands, sat against the wall of the hallway, but it was long enough that Sam came back from the enlistment office and offered Dean a helping hand to stand up. He hugged Dean, who in turn grumbled, “Chick flick moment, dude,” and shoved his younger brother off.

“For a moment there, I was worried you lost some of your masculinity,” Sam managed to joke. “But hey, so get this. You could be out of your mind, like this one crazy guy that came in and wanted to _willingly_ sign up. Who even does that?”

The weird guy, as it so turned out, was Castiel Novak. Castiel had been driving through Lawrence on Gabriel’s insistence that they at least visit Michael and Lucifer in California, even if he didn’t want to stay for the entire holiday season. Begrudgingly, Castiel had agreed, and as they passed through the small Kansas town with the draft playing on the radio, he had seen the line, now out the door, to the small enlistment office and decided that he "needed to pee."  Gabriel sighed and pulled over the car, warning Cas not to take too long.  Then, Gabriel had seen the candy shop across the street.  All sense of hurry was forgotten as the older Novak indulged in his candy cravings, while the younger made a split-second decision.

That was how Castiel had ended up standing in front of a very large man, named Sam, according to the paper nametag stuck to his suit pocket, who had asked, “Draft number?”

“I wasn’t drafted,” Castiel began. His eyes never lingered in one place for too long, glancing from the young men sitting in chairs strewn about the small office, to the desk where a pile of manila folders, no doubt the files of the draftees, was beginning to grow into a mountain.

Sam hardly looked up from the clipboard he was writing on. “Sir, I’m sorry, but we’re very busy, and we need to try and accommodate those who will soon be serving and need to register.”

Castiel glanced down to his feet, now feeling foolish, and said, “I would like to enlist.”

“You… what?” That had gotten Sam’s attention, as he was now staring at Castiel. He had even stopped scribbling notes on whatever forms he had been filling out. “Listen, man, are you sure you want to do that? It’s your choice, but my brother was drafted today and…” he trailed off, emotion filling his voice.

“I’m sure,” insisted Castiel.

Sighing, Sam removed a paper on from the clipboard and handed it to Castiel. “If you’ll just fill this out, then. You’ll be added to the seventy second draft group, but we’ll be sure to clarify you enlisted so you can get the extra bonus.”

Castiel took his time answering questions about his height, weight, and other details. Men entered and left the building, most of whom walked with their shoulders hunched over. Some were even accompanied by crying girlfriends and wives, urging them to avoid the draft or to stay safe. When Castiel finally returned the form to Sam, the taller man was chewing on his lip as if he had something he wanted to say, but he remained silent. He gave Sam a polite nod and headed for the door, when Sam called out, “Just… be careful, okay? And look out for my brother while you’re there.”


	2. Chapter 2

Three weeks.  That was how many weeks of medical school Dean had left to complete before he received the letter in the mail, the letter that informed him that he was needed for duty after the winter-time draft he was hoping the government miraculously forgot about.  Six weeks. That was the amount of time Dean had spent on this abominable base he now called home.  Six weeks of mundane life and taxing activities, that had crushed his inspiration for life.

His distasteful experience had begun the second he stepped foot onto the dusty gravel of the center of camp, herded like cattle with no less than a couple hundred other men around the flagpole bearing the red, white, and blue flag they were there to protect. 

“I don’t care why you’re here,” said a tired-sounding man’s voice.  Dean’s head snapped up from watching his foot idly trace patterns into the ground.  “But I do know that by the end of this camp, when you’re shipped off to hell, that you’ll be ready for whatever’s over there.”  Having successfully maneuvered towards the front of the crowd, Dean caught sight of a middle-aged man in an officer’s uniform, who had jerked his thumb sideways to emphasize his point.  “The name is Captain Henricksen, and you better hope you don’t hear it again, because it won’t be a pleasant visit.”

A few men shifted from one foot to the other, and a couple younger men defiantly stuck out their chins with a smirk on their face. Dean just clenched his jaw, hefting his standard army-green duffle bag higher over his shoulder.  Captain Henricksen stepped back into a line of other uniformed soldiers, presumably the commanding officers, who had stepped forward with clipboards and began calling out names.

“Winchester.”

Dean stepped into the group of men surrounding one particularly threatening-looking lieutenant.  He stayed in the middle of the packing, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible.  The feat itself had been hard enough, granted Dean’s tall height and tough demeanor, but was made more difficult when a pudgy kid next to Dean opened his mouth to speak.

“Hey, Lieutenant, when do we get the grand tour?”

The lieutenant whipped around, his lips curled into an ugly smile. “You,” he said, pointing directly at Dean. “I don’t know who you are, where you’re from, or what you do.”  He made his way through the parting cluster of men, sauntering towards Dean as if he was circling prey. “But what I do know,” he said, now face to face with the eldest Winchester, “Is that I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

Dean gave the officer a curt nod before turning to the kid next to him.  “You think this is fucking funny kid?” he growled.  The way the kid’s cheeks were puffed in held-back laughter only made Dean angrier.   He held his tongue, though, not wanting to get another demerit in the sergeant’s book for bad behavior. 

By the end of the week, Dean was willing to bet money that Alastair, as he soon learned the commanding officer’s name to be, had purposely given Dean the worst of everything.  The worst bed to sleep on, the worst tent to sleep in, the worst group of people to be paired with.  Unfortunately, Ed Zeddmore, the pudgy kid who Dean had oh-so-patiently dealt with, had turned out to be in Dean’s group of soldiers, and much to Dean’s dismay, had also continued to pull all sorts of crazy stunts, and unabashedly blame them on Dean.

On day one of training, Alastair had given an inspection, managing to find more wrong with Dean than any other private in the company. Apparently his shirt was too wrinkled (even though it wasn’t), his boots weren’t tied properly (even though they were), and he hadn’t taken the time to polish them (which was actually true).  Thus, Dean found himself frequently elbow-deep in soap suds, cleaning dishes after breakfast every morning as punishment.  Dishwashing duty almost always made Dean late for the mid-morning run, a penalty that earned a reward of two extra miles.  After showing up in the kitchen for two straight weeks, one of the cooks had cornered Dean and confronted him.

“So what’s your deal, private?” said the blonde girl that blocked Dean’s way to the sink.  Her hair was curled softly over her shoulders, despite the kitchen rules that suggested hair should be worn otherwise, and her black tank-top sat a little too high, showing a peek of her belly button.  Then again, on this base, nobody cared enough to report it, since all the men were too enamored with any type of female to give two thoughts about regulation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said, trying to move around her.  She sidestepped and crossed her arms, effectively stopping Dean in his tracks.  “Look, you’re going to make me late for the morning workouts.”

The girl shrugged. “I’m not the one who has to do the running.  So get talking.”

“I already told you, I don’t have a deal,” snapped Dean, getting impatient.

“I’m Jo,” the blonde said, still unmoving.

“And I’m late.”

“You wouldn’t be if you had just told me what’s up with you in the first place.”

Dean huffed out a sigh. “I’m late because you won’t get out of my way.”

“No, you’re late because you’re a stubborn asshole.” Jo shoved a black bucket of metal trays into Dean’s chest.  “So either start explaining or start cleaning.”

“Alastair thinks I’m a troublemaker and purposely assigns me dish-duty every morning to make up for it.  Now move.”

“See, now was that so hard?” prodded Jo.

“Yeah, actually, it was.”

Jo raised an eyebrow. “Oh, funny now, are we?”

“I like to think so,” Dean said as he aggressively scrubbed at some caked-on syrup.

“Listen, if you promise to tell me your whole story some other time, then I promise to help you out with the dishes so you won’t have to run the extra two miles.”  Jo took a few of the metal trays from Dean’s pile and walked over to the other sink.  “Not that you couldn’t use it though.  You’ve got a nice little belly there.”

“I do _not_ have a belly,” Dean protested. He turned towards Jo and asked, “You’ll really help me out, though?”

He wasn’t usually one for the sharing-and-caring scene, but Jo seemed good enough company, and who was he to refuse the extra help with chores?

“Mom’s always saying I need to do some charity work, so yeah, sure.”  Jo yelped when Dean sprayed her with water from the faucet head.  "Kidding, kidding!" she squealed.

Dean had still been late for the run that day, but the ordeal turned out to be good after all. He and Jo became good friends, and he learned that she was interested in nursing in the field, but her mother insisted that she help out with the family business.  As it turned out, her mother owned a bar in town, and sent a few of her workers to help out with cooking down on base.  Jo had volunteered, needing the space from her mom.  The advantage to having a friend who owned a bar and worked as a cook for the army was that she could sometimes sneak alcohol onto the base.

Tonight was one of those nights. Jo had promised to meet Dean outside his tent after dinner today for a drink, but she was nowhere to be found, so Dean found himself aimlessly wandering the base to pass the time.  Most men were either off base at some random bar to pick up chicks, or for the unlucky ones, off doing drills with their commanding officers. Alastair would have normally fallen into the latter group, but it was a Friday night and he had some family business to attend to.

Dean was just about ready to head back to his quarters for the evening when Jo drove up in a worn-down pickup truck, blasting The Doors.  “What are you just standing there for? Get in,” she shouted over the music. He climbed into the passenger seat, lips just starting to form a question when Jo answered it for him.  “Mom needed extra help at the bar.  More recruits just came in, and they’re over there getting sufficiently shitfaced.”

“Jo, I’m not in uniform! If anybody sees me, and Alastair finds out, he’ll kick my ass,” said Dean. He glanced down at the white t-shirt and an unwashed pair of green training pants, which was nowhere even close to acceptable attire for off-base expeditions.

“You’ll be behind the bar, it won’t matter.” Jo shrugged, navigating the empty paved roads to the bar. “Besides, half of them are too drunk to even remember their own names.”

Several minutes later, they pulled into the dirt parking lot crammed with army jeeps, cars, and bikes alike.  The pair exited the truck and strode to the front door, where a private was enthusiastically kissing a short brunette.  Jo cleared her throat, but the couple took no notice of the company. “Excuse me,” she said, shoving past them.  Dean let out a chuckle and followed her into the Roadhouse.

Inside, the tables had been shifted against the wall to allow for dancing room, and half-drank beers littered both the tables and window ledges.  Uniformed recruits crowded every inch of spare space, some getting drunk with friends and others flirting with girls who seemed even more turned on by the men’s military outfits. Jo grabbed Dean’s arm as they weaved their way to the counter, where an unhappy woman stood with her arms crossed.

“Joanna Beth-”

“Look mom, I brought help,” Jo said as she shoved Dean forward.

Dean held out his hand. “Dean Winchester, ma’am.”

“Ellen Harvelle, and no need to ‘ma’am’ me. Call me Ellen,” she said, accepting Dean’s handshake.  “You two better get to work before I decide to ground Jo for avoiding me.”  When her statement elicited no reaction, she narrowed her eyes at Jo and cleared her throat.

“We’re going, geeze,” Jo said. Rolling her eyes, she turned to Dean. “How good are you at mixing drinks?”

A couple hours later, and about a few dozen drunken recruits later, Dean gauged his drink-mixing expertise at slightly below average.  Despite approaching curfew, the bar remained jam-packed with bodies, although the flow to the counter had slowed down considerably.  Dean had begun to wipe down the bar when a man took a seat at one of the stools.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Dean, not pausing from his rubbing at a stubborn sticky patch where some sort of fruity alcohol had been spilled. The man said nothing for a few moments, and Dean had started to think the man had left when he finally spoke up.

“I will just take a beer, thank you.”

Dean filled a glass from the tap behind him and slid it over to the man.  Propping an elbow on the counter, he took his first glance at the man as he said, “Dude, if you can form coherent sentences, you aren’t nearly as drunk as you should be.” 

The soldier looked up, catching Dean’s eye.  His cleanly pressed uniform hung loosely over the man’s lean frame, held in place only by the belt that many soldiers in the bar had neglected to wear.  However, the uniform was a stark contrast to the man’s more attractive features.  Dean resisted the urge to make a comment about the dude’s sex hair and bright blue eyes, because with a body like that, he knew the reason the guy wasn’t dancing was probably due to a pretty girl back home.  But damn, was he attractive. In a manly way, Dean convinced himself.  Totally not in a gay way.  Not at all.

“My apologies,” said the man as he sipped at his beer. “I do not take any interest in drinking oneself drunk and copulating with unfamiliar females.”

Dean found himself intrigued by the odd way the soldier talked, and caught himself smiling amusedly at the stranger.  The man hesitantly returned the smile, which wavered when he motioned to somewhere over Dean’s shoulder.  Dean turned and startled when he found himself face to face with Jo, accidentally knocking over the man’s drink in the process.

“Sorry, man, I’ll clean that up,” mumbled Dean, reaching under the bar for another glass.  “Here’s another one, on the house.”  When Dean returned from the tap, though, the man was nowhere to be found.  Sighing, he picked up the rag, cleaning up the beer, almost forgetting Jo’s presence until she swatted him with a towel.

“He was attractive.”

“Huh?”

“Don’t, ‘huh?’ me, mister, I saw you flirting.”

“Jo, I was just being friendly.”

With a satisfied smirk, Jo said, “If I had to peg you for a type, Winchester, that man was it.”

“Friendly,” he grumbled. “Besides, my type is the type that’s _female_.”

Jo gave him a doubtful glance and wagged her wristwatch at Dean. “We need to get you back to base before Alastair sends your ass back to dish duty.”

“Shit, yeah, we need to go.” Dean untied the black apron from around his waist and hung it on the doorknob on his way out.  He thought Jo was done with bothering him about the blue eyed man, but in the parking lot she spoke up again.

“Maybe I’ll drive extra slow on the way back. That way you’ll get punished and I can bug you more about your man-crush.”

Dean groaned. Buckling his seatbelt, he gave one final protest of, “Friendly.” Jo just shrugged, leaving Dean glowering beside her.

* * *

Castiel was dragged off of the barstool by a very drunk young soldier.  “Hey, hey, dude, you trying to score with that bartender chick?” asked the inebriated man. “I want some of that hot piece of ass,” he said with a wink.

“No, go ahead,” said Castiel.  The thought crossed his mind that he wouldn’t mind spending the night with the male bartender he had been speaking to, but army folks (especially drunk ones) didn’t seem to take too well to men like Castiel, so he kept the thought to himself.  Then, the man had passed out, still holding on to Castiel, and he mumbled, “Or not.”

When Castiel managed to free himself from the soldier’s grip and return to the barstool, both the blonde-haired woman and green-eyed man had left.  Castiel couldn’t help feeling slightly disappointed at this.  He had at least wanted to catch the man’s name, but no such luck.  Castiel scowled, silently cursing the intoxicated soldier, and downed the rest of the beer that the male bartender had left on the counter.  He figured that he might as well head back to base and catch some sleep before tomorrow’s impending training.

The next morning, Castiel rolled out of bed, not even bothering to fix his permanently messed up hair, and trudged his way to the mess tent.  He had decided that he wasn’t a morning person after only about a week on the base.  Castiel slept-walked his way through the food line, almost forgetting to grab a metal tray along the way. He was nearly too sleepy to walk, let alone awake enough for his brain to register that the girl who slopped some brownish gooey stuff on his tray seemed oddly familiar.

Castiel found himself sliding into a seat next to his one and only friend on base, Chuck. He grunted a greeting at his friend, who was nose-deep in some sort of paperwork.  Chuck wasn’t much company any time he found something non-human to keep him occupied, so Castiel shoved his food in his mouth unceremoniously and rushed to the exit of the tent.  Since the army wisely decided to spend its money on weapons instead of doors, Castiel found himself pulling back the tent flap and walking smack into a strongly muscled chest.

“Sorry man,” said the figure, already pushing around Castiel. “Didn’t see you there.”

Castiel was already long outside the tent when he turned back with the notion that the chestnut head of hair was one he had seen before.  He shrugged off the feeling with the consolation that on this base, everyone had the same short-cropped cut, occasionally combed over whenever an event was formal enough to require it.

Dean’s feet refused to move for a few moments, still standing with the tent flap in his hand.  The soldier who had bumped into him had hair a bit too long for regulation, and it stuck up with angles that reminded him of the soldier last night. He shook his head, forcing the images out of his head.  Besides, he had awesome news to tell Jo, and nothing was sticking in his mind for too long. Dean strode to the kitchen area of the tent, shoving his way past a few protesting soldiers waiting in line.

“Jo,” he said breathlessly, stopping in front of his friend. “Guess what?”

“You got laid last night?” guessed Jo with a teasing grin. Seeing Dean’s pointed glare, she threw up her latex-gloved hands in protest. “Just kidding, relax!”

“Really, Jo? But, seriously, guess?”

“Seriously though, cot-sex with blue-eyes?”

 “Gross, Jo. I don’t even- Just… ew,” Dean said, contorting his face into one of mock-disgust. “But no, Bad Company is shipping off tomorrow-”

“Winchester, that is the reason you never get laid. Enough with the horrible references.”

“-and Henricksen promoted me to Sergeant of my platoon.”

“Congratulations!” Jo hugged him over the counter.  “I thought he hated you.  What happened?”

“I don’t know, I guess he was really impressed or something.” Dean shrugged. “I think I have you to thank for my lack of recent tardy marks, then.”

“Well, I’m proud of you, Dean, but seriously? Bad Company?”

“It’s better than Bravo Company,” Dean offered, shrugging.

“There is a reason the army uses NATO lettering, and that reason is because if idiots such as your stupid self made up their own company names, the world would have too many ugly virgins like you.” Jo smiled politely at one soldier who had stopped to listen in on their conversation before saying, “That includes you sweetheart. Didn’t your mommy ever tell you that staring is rude?”

Dean snorted. “Who you calling an ugly virgin? I’m gorgeous,” he said, flexing his arm muscles.  “And that’s _Sergeant_ Ugly Virgin, to you.”

“Well, _Sergeant_ Winchester, I hardly think that Bad Company is better than getting laid. Speaking of your sex life, I saw McDreamy this morning.”

“Who?”

“Your boyfriend-to-be.”

“The guy from last night? Here?” Dean suddenly felt nervous. His stomach began threatening to reject the questionable brown goop that Jo assured him was definitely gravy and totally edible, even though it was almost certainly not.

“Yes, the guy from last night, you idiot,” said Jo with a smack to Dean’s head. "Why, you want some of that?"

“How many times do I need to say it?” he growled.  “It's something called being friendly - which you apparently are incapable of.”

Jo smirked. “How cute, you’re in denial.”

“Not. Gay.”

“Yes you are,” she said. “For him, you definitely are.”

He managed a half-hearted protest before Jo shooed him out of the tent, telling him to go and pack. Dean found the rest of the day passing in a muddled blur of events.  Alastair was calling out shipping orders, men were packing their bags, and the lazier ones were lying on their beds, taking the unorganized commotion as an opportunity to nap.  Saying goodbye to Jo was surreal, almost as if he was dreaming, despite the fact he had only met her a little over a month ago. After promising her letters (“That means more than one, Dean.”), he found himself lying on his cot.

Dean couldn’t remember falling asleep, but the fact that the speakers of the camp were now calling their company to formation in the center of the camp for departure meant that it was 0500 and time to leave for the shipyard.  He tied his boots and straightened his uniform before taking one last look around his tent.  Then, he stepped into the camp commons and found himself engulfed by a sea of soldiers.

“Sergeant Winchester,” said a private, running up to Dean.  “Captain Henricksen would like a word.”

Groaning inwardly, Dean followed the private, absentmindedly fiddling with buttons and smoothing the lapels of his shirt.

“Sir.” Dean saluted his superior and stood at attention for more orders.

Castiel was jogging through the middle of camp, trying to push his way through the crowd of uniformed men shipping off to the battlefield today when he spotted him, the bartender from Friday night.  His was momentarily grateful for his commanding officer’s demand that the entire company wake early on a Sunday morning for a punishment run, because he wouldn’t have seen the bartender otherwise.  Castiel debated going over to speak to him, but then he saw whom the conversation consisted of.

Captain Henricksen and the bartender were speaking too quietly for Castiel to hear much of the conversation.  As Castiel ran closer, he could see the pins on the collar of the bartender’s shirt.  Castiel hadn’t realized that the bartender had been in the army at all, let alone a Sergeant.  As much as Castiel had appreciated the fitted white t-shirt on the barten- _sergeant’s_ muscles last night, the uniform certainly did him justice as well. He found himself remembering gorgeous green eyes with a bright smile, wondering if they had been flirting or if the man was just being friendly. Castiel figured could always wait around for the conversation to finish and find out, but then the bartender was saluting Henricksen again, striding away, and so was Castiel, whose feet were carrying him farther and farther away from the center of the camp.

He cursed himself inwardly, picking up the pace in frustration as he ran. He consoled himself with unhelpful thoughts that the majority of men he had met were only interested in girls, but it wasn’t entirely comforting. Castiel felt stupid for thinking the bartender was even interested in him in the first place.  Knowing he was a Sergeant made matters worse.  He was probably some stuck up army brat who thought Castiel was just another annoying private who didn’t respect his superiors.

For the remainder of his run, Castiel tried not to listen for the rumbling engine of the carrier trucks that would transport the troops to the docks for the boat ride to Europe.  He couldn’t help but notice the loud whooping sounds a few soldiers made as the trucks pulled out, wondering if the sergeant was one of them.

“Castiel,” said Chuck, breaking him out of his trance. “We need to be at the obstacle course in ten minutes.” 

Castiel’s thoughts for the rest of the day were unfocused.  More than once, he found himself performing extra pushups, an extra mile, doing extra chores, all on behalf of the memory of a certain sergeant.  Stupid.  He felt so stupid. The sergeant was gone now, and there was nothing Castiel could do about it. Castiel kept trying to forget him, he really did.  But that night, he tossed and turned on his pillow as the memories found their way back.  And although he would never admit it, he even fell asleep chasing away curiosities of what the sergeant was doing now.

Somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, Dean found himself swaying in a cot on an unstable cargo ship, wondering much the same about “McDreamy”.  Jo had said something about the guy being on base earlier that day, and Dean couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever met before, or if he dared to hope – meet again. He didn’t really like this guy, Dean convinced himself as he fell asleep.  It was just that the man was different than the general crude army men, and it was a welcome relief.

“Friendly,” he repeated to no one in particular.

“What’s that, Winchester?” called the man in the space above Dean, peering down over the edge to stare into Dean’s tired eyes.

“Nothing.” Dean flipped himself over to face the wall. “I’m fine.”

The voice persisted, “You sure?”

“Go the fuck to sleep or I’ll make sure you’re the first one to check for land mines.” Dean could tell the man was formulating a response, so he added, “With a butterknife.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean managed to convince himself that his time in Switzerland had been fun.  In reality, he found life quite miserable.  He didn’t know half of what the locals were saying, the new leader of their company, Gordon, was ruthless and didn’t care who got hurt so long as a mission was completed, and to top it off, Dean frequently worried that his toes would fall off from frostbite.  If this was a Swiss fall, he most certainly didn’t want to be around for winter.

The only upside to being miserable was that Dean’s quiet cursing and not-so-subtle complaints about Gordon earned him quite a following. Most of the men in his platoon were willing to cover his ass if Gordon ever found out about the nasty things Dean had said. It also helped that Dean was the best sniper in the company (and that was Dean being modest), so Gordon wouldn’t exactly discharge him and stick him on the next flight home.

Plus, Dean had found himself two friends that he found considerably more tolerable than most other soldiers.  There was Chuck, who was in charge of managing rations, distributing ammunition, and calling in for more supplies.  He was a man about five years older than Dean who was always writing something on whatever spare paper he could find, and Dean made a mental note to steal Chuck’s pack someday and read those notes.  Then there was Ruby, a chick who Dean didn’t actually like most of the time. When Dean had found out that she snuck herself into the troops and wasn’t technically enlisted, Dean scrounged up some sort of respect for her. But, most days he just wanted to punch her in the face, since that was all she could talk about. 

This morning, the company was camped in the woods skirting a small town a few dozen miles outside of Zurich, and Dean was bitching about something he probably wouldn’t even remember the next day.

“It’s oh-four-fuckin’-hundred,” moaned one of the men, “Go the fuck to sleep.”

“Well I would, if the whole damn area didn’t smell like a house fire,” Dean countered.

“He’s got a point.”

“Fine, fine, but at least talk about something interesting.  It’s too early for this shit.”

“Winchester, tell us about another time you died.”

“Yeah man, give us a story.”

“I’ve already told you guys most of them,” said Dean.

“I’m fucking bored, I wanna hear another one.”

Dean rubbed his hand over his face, looking at the numerous faces only visible as silhouettes by the light of a cigarette. He could see the first of the sun’s rays beginning to peek through the treetops, meaning the company would probably be moving out soon.  Sighing, he said, “Fine. But only one.”

“You’ve died before?” came a young voice. Dean’s eyes flicked from soldier to soldier trying to find the one who spoke.  His gaze landed on a kid that couldn’t be much older than eighteen who was sheepishly avoiding Dean’s amused smile.

“What’s your name, private?”

“Adam, sir.”

“No need to call me sir,” said Dean, “and it’s just a joke. I’m not a ghost or something.”

Truth is, Dean felt as if he should have been by now.  The amount of times he’d almost died, yet hadn’t, was astounding.  Dean was starting to think he had an angel watching over him, like his mom had always said, because he should have bit the dust a long time ago.

It had first started in training camp over in Crap Town, Ireland.  The company had gotten lost on a training mission, ending up about two miles south of their assigned course.  While the commanding officers tried to sort things out, the rest of the men were huddled behind a cluster of trees, when a bull had wandered up, sniffing around at things. It had taken particular interest in Dean, who had frozen in an attempt to deter its inevitable charge.  Then, just as it had taken its first steps, the officers had sorted their crap out, and Chuck had pulled Dean’s arm just in time to see the bull charge into the thicket of bushes.

The next time, Dean’s platoon had gotten separated from the rest of the company during an ambush.  He had been crouched behind a tree, peeking around the left side, when he had heard the click of a handgun’s safety being removed.  Dean had slowly turned around, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a very angry enemy's gun.  The other man’s hand had started to flinch over the trigger when a member of Dean’s platoon fired a well-aimed shot into the enemy’s neck.  Dean had been plastered against the tree for a good ten minutes after that, refusing to move until they reunited with the rest of the company.

“Three times the charm” apparently did not apply to Dean’s death, because he found himself surviving a third almost sure-death by landmine.  It was midnight, and Gordon had them trekking across a rocky field, which he ensured them had already been cleared for mines by other troops.  Apparently that was not the case, as Dean had heard a subtle _click_ under his foot.  Everyone had turned to stare at him, but only Ruby had collected enough sense to very slowly replace Dean’s foot with a heavy rock.  They cleared the rest of the field with their bayonets, and it wasn’t until they were through the field that a loud explosion filled the air.  Dean had turned around, panic starting to seed its way into his brain when he realized how that was almost him, but Ruby had pulled Dean along on the march.

There had been other times, of course, such as the time with the food poisoning.  Or the time when Dean had been elected the unwilling volunteer to run across the field of combat, with both friendly and enemy fire whizzing overhead, to disable the enemy’s heavy artillery. And who could forget the time when the army had decided to bomb their own damn camp (although that was everyone’s near-death experience, not just Dean’s).

“Let me tell you,” began Dean, “I am never flying Huey airlines as long as I live.”  To be honest, Dean found the open-sided helicopters kind of awesome, but this experience had pretty much ruined that for him.  “I’m sure you all remember our fun time with Delta Company.” There were a few chuckles and a couple unhappy grunts.  “Yeah, well, Gordon sent my ass to be butchered,” Dean said loud enough for the officer to hear.

“Not my fault you’re a pain in the ass, Winchester.”

“You kiddin?  I’m a joy to be around!” Dean gave a cocky smile.  “Anyways, so they’ve got me up in that damn helicopter, expecting me to fuckin’ shoot from up there. Who the hell can even keep a rifle steady when our pilots are shit?”

“Apparently you.”

“I’m flattered you think so highly of my abilities.”

“No problem, Sarge.”

“Enough with the flirting, just take him out to dinner already,” huffed one of the men.

“I don’t swing that way, sweetheart,” said Dean.  He turned his thoughts back to the story. “So the pilot is all like, ‘We’re taking heavy fire!’ or some shit, but I’m all like, ‘Yeah, I can see that, dumbass.’  And then the guy next to me catches a stray-” Dean paused to tap his forehead. “-right between the eyes.  I’m thinking I’m screwed as it is, but then something with the helicopter isn’t right, and we start tipping.”

“You’re making this up.”

“No he ain’t.”

“Got proof?”

“He’s got a scar.”

 “Still could be makin’ it up.”

“I was there, he ain’t.”

“Mission was hell, we all almost caught it there.”

“That day sucked ass, man.”

“Aye aye, bro.”

“Shut up, all of ya.  Let a man talk.”

“So the freakin’ thing starts slipping, and I’m up there holdin’ the frame with one hand and my rifle with the other.  I’ll tell you, those things aren’t stable, man.  And then we crash, and I felt something pushing against me.  And I’m thinking, this is it, I’m finally gonna get it.  Then this bitch-” Dean clapped Ruby on the back.  “-pulls me out of the thing, right as the entire thing goes up in flames.”

“Helicopters don’t explode, everyone knows that.”

“Not if they’re doused in gasoline, you dumb shit,” interjected Ruby.  “Besides, if you don’t believe the man, just look at his stomach.  He had a whole shard of the door stuck in there.”  Ruby crawled over to Dean and lifted up his shirt, pointing to the jagged line of white skin that had only recently healed over.

Dean slapped her hand away.  “My story, not yours.”

“If you two are going to start bickering like a married couple-”

“Whatever,” Dean said, dismissing Ruby and the older soldier.  He took a swig from his flask.  “I’ve got news.”

“News or gossip?” prodded Ruby.

“Same thing to you, ain’t it?” muttered Ed Zeddmore.  Ruby leaned over and kicked him in the leg. He scampered back, out of her reach.

“Last time I was in Captain Asshat’s tent-”

 “You mean last time Gordon was punishing you?”

“You gonna shut the fuck up and listen or what?”  The soldier defensively raised his hands, and Dean continued talking.  “Heard we’re getting back-up today.”

“Yeah?” asked Chuck.

“Yeah,” said Dean.  He shifted against his pack. “India Company flew in last night.”

Just then, Gordon’s voice carried through the half-sleeping men scattered around the area in sleeping bags.  “Slumber party’s over.  Get your asses up, we’re moving!”  For good measure, he nudged an unresponsive soldier in the butt with his boot.  “I said, _up_.”

Within ten minutes, everyone had rolled up their sleeping bags, made their packs, and was marching in line behind Gordon.  Between the woods and the service road was a small swamp, and there was much complaining as the men trudged through the slop, mud clinging to their pants and seeping through their socks.  Gravel kicked under the soles of their boots as they walked up the hill and towards a small town.  Rumor was that the town had been abandoned, but with the American army’s track record for information relay, nobody could be sure. 

“You and you,” said Gordon, pointing to two sergeants. “Take your platoons and flank the left and right sides.  Cover our asses.”  He turned to Dean.  “Winchester, you’re with me.  Up the center and into town.”

Dean crouched in the trenches beside the road with his men behind him.  “On Gordon’s word,” he said to them.

Gordon watched the progress of the first two platoons as they headed out to the sides through a field of tall grass.  When they were out of sight, Gordon threw his hand forward.  “Go, go, go!” he hissed, waving them on. 

Crouched low and rifle pointed ahead, Dean ran up the hill and into the city with his men close behind. That was when the first crack of enemy fire broke the silence.  _Leave it to the army to get us killed_ , thought Dean.

The next ten minutes were filled with the sound of bullets flying, clicks of men reloading weapons, the steady explosions of machine guns, and the blasts of grenades.  The first two platoons barged in from the left and right, taking the city from the outskirts.  Dean ducked into an abandoned bakery, taking cover with two other men as they fired at the warehouse down the block.  He could hear the calls of the rest of the company as he fought.

“Take the next block!”

“Grenade, get down!”

“Shit-” came a feminine voice. _Ruby_ , realized Dean.  The sound of several shots echoed through the street.  “Get in there!” yelled Ruby again. 

“You good, man?”

“Get that one in the top left window!”

“Over there, over there!”

A few more shots and Dean was satisfied that the warehouse was empty.  Dean jumped through the window, motioning for the two other men to follow. A blast rocketed from the left, and Dean clutched onto his helmet.  “Move, move!” he yelled, pushing the men into a run.  Dean cringed as another crack erupted nearby.  He started sprinting through the street, returning the barrage of an enemy weapon with a spurt of his own gunfire.  He dove into an alley just in time to avoid a third detonation, falling in a heap of limbs.

All was quiet for several moments, so Dean poked his head around the corner.  He could hear the faint sound of _The Contours_ playing over the radio. “Which one of you assholes is playing music?” he shouted. “Better be fucking clear or you’re all gonna get it.”

“It wasn't us!” said the man currently in charge of the radio, somewhere from across the town. “Radio’s off.” He held it up as proof. Everyone quieted down in anticipation of another attack, but it never came. Then the talking started up again.

“We all clear?”

“We’re clear, we’re clear!”

“Get a medic out here!”

“Check that storefront over there!”

“Who are they?”

“That India Company?”

“Little late, ain’t they?”

“They playing music?”

“Lucky we’re clear, dipshits could’ve got us killed.”

Dean stepped out of the alley and straightened his pack.  It seemed as if the city had taken more damage than their troops had.  Most of the doors were kicked down or were now adorned with bullet holes, no window remained intact, broken glass and broken bricks along with various other rubble decorated the streets, and shutters hung out of windows by a thread.  Dean met up with Ruby along the way, clapping her on the back.

“Thought you were done for over there.”

“Aww shit, Winchester.  Touching, you actually care.”

“Can’t have you believing that,” he said.  “I’m going to go check that block over there.  Meet you in a few.”

Dean jogged up the street, nodding a greeting at three soldiers from India Company who were running the opposite way.  He turned down another street, glancing at windows as he passed.  There was a sudden surge of bullets, and Dean plastered himself to the wall, returning the attack.  That was when he caught sight of one of Bravo Company’s own men, stupidly stuck in the middle of the street.

“Hey!” he yelled.  The kid turned around.  Wasn’t that Adam, the boy from earlier?  “Damn it,” muttered Dean, running over. “Move, you son of a bitch!” He grabbed the strap of Adam’s pack, pulling him down the street and shoving him into a doorway.  Dean was about to follow into the building when he felt a surging pain in his abdomen. 

He reached down to his stomach, feeling over it with his hand.  It was wet. And sticky. And red.  Dean gulped and watched Adam with wide eyes.  He felt dizzy, like he was going to pass out. Another barrage of bullets disrupted the wood of the house behind him.  Then, he felt a second shooting pain through his left shoulder.  Dean’s knees gave out from under him, causing him to collapse on the stone street.

“Dean!” came a shout, presumably Adam’s.  More gunfire.  Running  feet.  Muddled voices.

“Is he alright?”

“What happened?”

“Winchester, wake up!  Open your fucking eyes!”

Dean felt a slapping on his cheek and managed to fight off the unconsciousness that was threatening to consume him. 

“He’s awake.”

“Medic! We need a medic!”

“Got one through the bottom right of his stomach and one through his left shoulder.”

“Hang in there, kid.”

He vaguely saw a man with a red cross painted across his left arm push his way through the group of people, telling everyone to back up.

“He’s seriously… needs to get to a… too much blood loss… can’t do a proper surgery here… get him out of here.”

“Don’t die on me now, you shithead.”

“Move him!”

“We’re losing him.”

“I said move, damn it!”

Dean felt himself being lifted by the feet and shoulders and murmured a half-hearted protest that he was fine, even though he knew he wasn’t. The last thing Dean remembered seeing was a pair of staring blue eyes as Ruby and some other soldier from India Company carried him out of the town.  Then, everything went black.

* * *

 

Castiel was walking through the silenced town with his friend Alfie when he heard the firing start up again, followed by a loud cry of, “Dean!”  The two men hid behind a large column of bricks while they waited for it to die down.

“Somebody’s getting an unfortunate letter home,” Alfie said, ducking out from behind the brick beam.

“I’m afraid so,” replied Castiel.

Alfie turned to Castiel. “You coming, Castiel?”

“Coming where?”

“To see what happened,” said Alfie, as if it was obvious.

“Oh. I'm going to go check that street over there, first.”

“Your loss.”

Castiel normally found himself bothered by deaths on the battlefield, unlike the rest of the men who shared stories about it.  However, when he heard the conversation of two men who hurried past, Castiel found himself drawn towards the street where a handful of soldiers were huddled over a stilled body.

“Think the dude finally bit it,” said the first man.

The other one shook his head.  “Heard that Adam kid saw the whole thing.”

“Adam Milligain? Shit, he’s going to have nightmares for a week. Kid hates blood.”

“Poor guy.”

“Naw man, he’s lucky.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, heard Winchester saved his ass before… well, you know.”

Winchester. Why did that name sound familiar?  Castiel followed the men, but stopped a considerable distance away, not wanting to see the mangled corpse.

“He’s awake,” Castiel heard someone in the group say. He breathed a little sigh of relief. A medic he recognized from India Company pushed through the crowd, taking the man’s pulse and applying pressure to areas that Castiel presumed were the wounds.  The man flinched a bit, then stilled.

 _Winchester_ , Castiel thought again.  He was musing through the memory of everyone he had ever met when a girl and someone Castiel vaguely recognized from his own company began to pick up the injured soldier.  

The man’s head rested listlessly against the girl’s chest, his arms hanging from his sides.  Dried blood marked dark patches on the man’s open shirt, which was only held on around the shoulders.  The medic had wrapped gauze tightly around the lower abdomen and the left shoulder, which had already turned a shade of bright red.  More blood seeped from under the bandages, oozing over the man’s once-tanned (but now blanching) body.  Black ink of the tip of a tattoo was visible just below where the gauze was wrapped on the shoulder.

Castiel grudgingly moved his attention to the soldier’s face, which was devoid of emotion.  Grime covered most of the skin, yet Castiel could tell the man was once incredibly handsome.  Castiel had an idea of where he’d seen this man before, and fighting the unwelcome clench in his stomach, his gaze darted to the man’s eyes, just to be sure.

Green flooded his vision, and Castiel remembered where he’d heard the name.

_“You aren’t nearly as drunk as you should be.”_

Sergeant Winchester.

Castiel felt sick.


	4. Chapter 4

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Beep._

Dean’s eyes popped open.  The steady beeping continued in his ear, and his first instinct was that it was a bomb getting ready to detonate.  He jumped, waiting for the explosion, but it never came. What did come, though, was a steady flow of pain to his stomach.  Dean felt like he was going to puke.

“Hey, hey, relax.”

“Sam?” croaked Dean. “What’s going on?”

Sam frowned and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re in the hospital, in Lawrence,” he began tentatively.

“And?”

“And I’m not supposed to tell you what happened, the doctors are afraid you might have an ‘acute stress reaction,’ whatever that means.”

“An after effect of a traumatic experience that could cause a high heart rate, temporary amnesia, and… what’s that look for?”

“I have no idea what you just said, Dean,” said Sam, taking a seat once more. “I know you’re all mister smarty-pants doctor, but don’t expect me to understand any of that stuff.”

“Panic attack, Sam,” clarified Dean.

Sam frowned, then attempted to change the conversation by saying, “Jess is coming up to visit later today.  She’s still at work now.”

“Your wife-to-be’s visiting…” he mused, “so it’s really that bad then, huh?” Dean let out a forced laugh when Sam only nodded, not even bothering to correct Dean’s wise-crack about Jess.  An idea began to formulate in Dean’s mind, and he smirked, wiggling his eyebrows. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

“Dean, don’t.”

Sam’s warning fell upon deaf ears as Dean began to pull up his hospital-issued gown, grunting in an effort to shift his torso.  Dean was just revealing the war-battered skin underneath when a red-headed nurse entered, scribbling on a clipboard.  She glanced up briefly, probably to check to see whether Dean was awake, and upon noticing his current mission, rushed over to the bedside.

“Your brother said you might try this,” she said, pulling down his shirt and pushing him against the bed with a hand to his chest.  “Don’t do it again, understand?”

 Dean scowled in response.  His mood increased slightly when he managed to wrestle his attention away from his mysterious wounds to get a good look at the nurse, who had a pair of bright blue eyes that made Dean feel oddly comforted.  Shrugging, Dean began to flirt, saying, “So, doing anything tonight?”

“No,” she said. “And neither are you.”  Dean huffed out a breath in protest, mumbling something along the lines of _you can’t make me_ , so the nurse turned to Sam.  “How do I get him to shut up?”

“You don’t,” Sam said.

Turning to Dean, she said, “The doctor will see you in a little bit.”  Dean’s hand began to creep up to his shirt again, causing the nurse to swat it away with a stern, “And don’t try anything.”

Dean nodded feebly, feigning temporary innocence, but when the nurse exited the room, leaving her clipboard on the door, Dean started to swing his legs out of bed, intending to peek at his records.

“Dean!” hissed Sam.  Dean shrugged, making a _whatcha-gonna-do-about-it_ face.   Sam let out a sigh. “Fine, if you’re going to insist on being a jerk, at least don’t injure yourself in the process.”

Dean grinned, settling back into the hospital bed and making grabby hands as Sam retrieved the file from the plastic bin on the door.  Dean’s fingertips were just closing around the manila folder when Sam pulled it back, just far enough from his fingers.

“Don’t freak out on me.”

“I won’t,” promised Dean, grunting with an effort to lean forward and grab the folder, only to have his efforts rebuffed as Sam once again moved the folder out of Dean’s reach.

“Pinky promise?”

“Don’t pull all this girly sleepover shit on me,” warned Dean.  Sam raised his eyebrows in warning. “Yeah, yeah, I promise.”

Dean gave Sam a smug smirk when he snatched the folder from his brother’s hands, earning him an unhappy glare in return.  He read the heading of the folder, claiming the hospital to be  _Lawrence Medical United Hospital._ So, he wasn’t even at a field hospital – that couldn’t be good news. Dean opened the folder, which was labeled _Winchester, Dean – 2033rd Division_ , flipping past a copy of his most recent physical, as well a copy of his enlistment forms. 

“Ooh, the good stuff,” said Dean grinning, showing Sam the medical records from the past… two weeks?  Dean thumbed through the pages, placing his finger on the first date (October 23rd) before flipping to the sheet the nurse had just been writing on and double-checking today’s date (November 6th).  That couldn’t be right.  “Sammy, they’ve got the dates wrong.”

Sam, who had just returned to reading a newspaper, glanced up.  “Or maybe you just can’t count.”

“Dude, I’m serious,” said Dean.  He waved the records in front of Sam for good measure.  “Earth to Sasquatch?”

“Just because you’re hurt doesn’t mean you get to call me that, Dean.”

Dean let out an indignant whine, holding out the papers for Sam to look at.  Sam sighed, plucking the papers from Dean’s outstretched hand.  “See?” said Dean.

“No, Dean, these are right.”

“B-b-but they can’t be, right?” Dean managed to stutter out. “I mean, I was only shot yesterday right?  Because I remember shoving Adam into the store and then- oh God, is Adam okay?  He can’t be hurt, I mean the kid’s got a family and he was like eighteen and too young and what if he’s hurt or dead or oh shit Sammy, I tried to protect him-”

“Dean-”

“-but we couldn’t see where they were coming from and then there was a second shot and I was shot right?  Shot twice?  Because I remember the first one and then the second one and there was blood and there was a lot of it and-”

“Dean.”

“-and then I think I blacked out because I don’t remember a lot but I remember Ruby and some random guy I didn’t know, maybe that was India Company or something, but they were carrying me and everything and there was a bunch of people – no wait, maybe the people were first – but there was blood and Gordon was telling me not to die and-”

“Dean, take a breath for a-”

“-Ruby was there too and yeah and then she picked me up and was carrying me and it hurt a lot because there was bandages and blood and I think I was hallucinating because of blood loss or something – did I lose a lot of blood?  I lost a lot of blood, right? I must have lost blood – but there was this guy staring at me and I think I knew him but I don’t know if he was real because he couldn’t have been-”

“Dean, could you let me say someth-”

“-because why else would he be there, he was just some random guy at the bar, and I swear I’m not gay, don’t tell Jo okay? But I remember him and they were calling a helicopter and Ruby sounded really worried and-”

“DEAN.”

“What?” shouted Dean, snapping out of his ramblings.

“This is exactly why they didn’t want you looking at the files, you idiot.” Ignoring Dean’s unhappy protesting, Sam stood up to put the file away just as the doctor entered the room.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” said the doctor.  Dean warily eyed the man, who had dark brown hair, longer than Sammy’s, a few days of stubble, and hazel eyes.  He wore a white hospital gown, and when he smiled, Dean could have sworn he was a movie star.  Or a porn star.  Same thing, right?

“Hi,” said Dean, smiling nervously at the doctor… Doctor Sexy, he decided.  _What?_ he thought to himself, _I’m allowed to find him attractive.  That’s totally normal.  I’m still straight._

“Any trouble?” asked Doctor Sexy.

“No,” said Dean.

“Yes,” said Sam.

Doctor Sexy looked at Dean, then at Sam, and back to Dean.  “I’m going to have to listen to your brother on this one.  What happened?”

Dean gave an angry grunt and stared out the door, absently staring at the elderly lady in the room across the hall.  It only served as another reminder that Dean wasn’t even in good enough condition to be stitched up in a field hospital, so he took to studying his hands, which were folded stupidly in his lap. He fiddled with a loose thread on the blanket, silently willing Sam to come up with some smart-sounding answer that didn’t make him seem like a post-war crazed soldier.

“He got his hands on his records, and then he kind of… freaked,” began Sam tentatively.

Doctor Sexy nodded, his mouth pressed in a thin line.  The poor guy probably had to deal with this on a daily basis, but Dean frankly felt entitled to knowing his own condition. “I thought one of my nurses told you that he shouldn’t be allowed to see it.”

“I know, but I figured since, you know, he’s studying to be a doctor…”  Sam trailed off at the end of the sentence, scratching the back of his neck uncertainly.

“You thought wrong,” said Doctor Sexy, sounding more annoyed than angry.  “Well then, we might as well fill in the rest of the gaps for you,” he said, turning to Dean.

Dean drew his attention away from his hands to listen to Doctor Sexy. “Alright,” said Dean simply.   Doctor Sexy raised an eyebrow. “I won’t freak out, I promise.”

“According to your brother, you already did,” interrupted Sexy.

“Yeah, whatever,” grumbled Dean.  “So you gonna fill me in or what?”

“You were shot.”

“Ooh wow, breakthrough, Dean Winchester was, gasp, shot!” mocked Dean, rolling his eyes.

Sam gave the doctor an apologetic look. “He gets sarcastic and defensive when he’s upset.”

“Do not,” countered Dean, but Sam only shook his head, as if saying, _see?_ , before scribbling something into his newspaper’s crossword puzzle.

Doctor Sexy cleared his throat, and Dean returned his attention back to the conversation.  “You were shot, twice, one right under your left clavicle, and the other above your right hipbone.  Luckily there was no internal bleeding, however you still did lose quite a bit of blood.”

“And that’s why I’m here, not in a field unit?”

“No, you were patched up at a field hospital, but after you remained unconscious for a week, with a high fever and frequently low blood pressure, they airlifted you out here.”  Doctor Sexy glanced up at Dean’s face, checking to make sure he hadn’t started to freak out. Seeing Dean’s vacant expression, he continued speaking.  “We’re going to want to keep you for the next two weeks in case anything else goes wrong, and then you’ll be released.  I advise staying away from any physical strain for the next two months, but after three weeks, try to start doing some easy exercising on your own.”  Dean opened his mouth to speak, but he was cut off. “That means jogging and light weights – no hard running, no playing soccer or baseball or whatever it is you do, and don’t do any heavy lifting either.”

“So basically I’m immobile, doc.”

“More or less, yes,” said Doctor Sexy, scribbling a prescription and handing it to Sam.  “On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in, Mr. Winchester?”

“Really, we’re doing the one to ten scale?”

“Do you enjoy being difficult?” asked Doctor Sexy.

“I’d say on a scale of one to Jefferson Starship, I’m feeling about… Jefferson Airplane.” Dean smirked, watching the doctor’s face scrunch in confusion.

“Are you in pain or not?”

“What do you think?  I got fucking shot,” snapped Dean, his cockiness dissolving into irritation.

“Alright,” said Doctor Sexy to Sam, “We’re going to give him some morphine to help with the pain a bit, and a light sedative so he doesn’t irritate the wounds with his… antics.  I suggest you help him eat something first, and I’ll send in a nurse to re-apply the antibiotics and re-wrap the gauze.”  With that, the doctor nodded and left the room, closing the door on the way out.

“Wow,” said Dean, “He’s kind of a jerk.”

“Dean,” Sam scolded, “Really? You couldn’t have just given him a number?”

“Why? Everyone knows that scale is bullshit.”

“Everyone has also had enough of your horrible jokes about Jefferson Starship.  We get it, you hate them, move on.”

“It’s funny, Sammy, lighten up a bit.”

“No Dean, I will not ‘lighten up a bit.’  I don’t think you realize how serious of a situation this is.”

“I don’t think you realize how annoying you sound right now.”

Sam and Dean continued staring each other down until a different nurse poked her head in, asking if she was interrupting anything, to which both Dean and Sam quickly growled, “no.”  Sensing the tension, the nurse scurried in and out, only stopping to place a tray with Jell-O, applesauce, a cup of water, and a smaller cup with pills in it onto the bedside table.  Sam muttered a brief “thank you,” all while glaring at Dean.

Dean turned to ogle the poor nurse’s ass as she walked out, and Sam took the opportunity to unwrap the foil seal on the applesauce cup and collect a spoonful of the yellowy paste.   When Dean turned his attention back to his younger brother, opening his mouth to speak, Sam hastily shoved the plastic spoon into Dean’s mouth, so that Dean’s complaint only sounded like, “Oo neeoo aalm oowwn.”

“Not cool,” said Dean, pulling the spoon back out of his mouth (minus the applesauce, noted Sam happily), and waving a stern finger at Sam.

“How else was I supposed to get you to eat it?” said Sam, looking too damn smug for what he’d just done.

Dean grumpily ate another spoonful of the applesauce. “How else was I supposed to get you to eat it?” parroted Dean, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows in mockery. He shoved the spoon back into the applesauce, making a show of gathering a hefty load of the sauce and eating it rudely, causing excess bits of the applesauce to drip from his mouth and plop down onto his chest.  Okay, so maybe the applesauce wasn’t so bad, after all, but with Sam still grinning like the cat that caught the canary in the corner of the room, Dean wasn’t going to admit anything.

When Sam paused his… whatever he was doing over there, to check up on Dean, he met his brother’s green eyes squinting in fake-unhappiness.  “ooo adee ee aaake mm messs,” accused Dean around another spoonful of applesauce.  Dean let out a laugh, examining his applesauce-clad state, and Sam joined him.

“I’m just glad you’re okay, man.”

“Me too,” said Dean.  He cleared his throat and faked coughed. “I mean, uh… dude, I didn’t sign up for caring and sharing.  I’m in here for battle scars, not a vagina transplant.”

Sam just laughed, returning his attention to the newspaper.  “Take your pills, Dean.”

“My manly sedative pills?”

“Mmmhmm,” hummed Sam, waiting until Dean downed the pills with a glass of water. Dean grinned happily, thinking he’d won the argument, until Sam added, “Just kidding, they were your sex-change pills.”

Sam watched as his older brother’s eyelids slowly began to droop, the medications luring him into a calm sleep.  Dean’s motionless body scared him a bit, even if Sam knew that this time Dean was only asleep – not in a coma, like last time – and Sam wished he would wake up soon.  This was why, several hours later, Sam found himself roused from his own nap in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair when Dean began mumbling things in his sleep.

“Mmm no, don’t go,” Dean was saying, his head twitching slightly as he dug it deeper into his pillow.  His fingers closed over the sheets and he mumbled, “don’t really know you…  like you…”

Sam pulled his chair closer to Dean’s bedside, watching quizzically as Dean managed to flip himself over in his sleep. 

“Oww,” complained Dean, his eyes popping open as the pain from the sudden movement roused him from his happy dreams.  Dean rubbed his side and grimaced, slowly coming to as his vision cleared.  “How long was I out?” he asked Sam.

“About seven hours,” said Sam as he checked his watch.  He glanced from Dean’s bed-mussed head to his spit-slicked lips, wondering if he should mention the sleep-talk Dean had been mumbling.  Sam cleared his throat.  “You we’re talking in your sleep.”

Dean froze, knowing very well what he had been dreaming about.  He didn’t want to have to explain himself to Sam, so he hopefully asked, “Yeah?  About what?”

“You were asking someone not to leave you,” Sam said.  He crossed his arms.  “So who is she?”

“There isn’t any girl, Sam,” said Dean, shifting to sit upright in his bed.   Technically, he wasn’t lying – his dreams hadn’t involved any girl.  Instead, they had involved a certain bed-mussed black haired man with stunning blue eyes.  In fact, Dean was thankful for his painful awakening, because he was pretty sure that the dream version of McDreamy had been feeling to far south to be reaching for Dean’s hand...

“Whatever you say, Dean.  I’m going to get it out of you sooner or later though, and you know it.”

Dean grunted as he tested his muscles, wondering if today was the day that he would be able to stand.  Given the protests of his stomach and shoulders, Dean was pretty sure that day wouldn’t be any time soon.  He leaned back against the pillow.  “Keep dreaming, Sammy.”

“You were the one dreaming, Dean.”

* * *

 

Dean managed to keep himself busy over the next two weeks – along with several of the nurses.  The hospital staff found themselves cleaning up storage closets that seemed to mysteriously collapse in on themselves, with blankets and pillows and pill assortments strewn about.  Sam pointedly ignored Dean’s smug grins as he crawled back into bed after his daily “walk around the hospital.”  However, despite Sam’s hopes to ignore his brother’s blatant sexual conquests, Dean enjoyed filling Sam in from day to day.

“I’m telling you Sammy, you’d think she’s all sweet and shy, but that girl is a tiger,” said Dean, tilting his head back as he remembered his afternoon in the pill closet by room 216.

“Dean, I don’t want to hear what you were or weren’t doing to that poor girl.”  Sam pursed his lips.  “Do you even know her name?”

“Course I do!” Dean said incredulously.  “Do you really think I’m that kind of guy?”

“No, Dean, I _know_ you’re that kind of guy,” said Sam.  “So, what’s her name, then?”

“Anna.”

“Wow, you’re such a gentleman.  You seem to know so much about her.”

“Hey!” exclaimed Dean.

Sam only raised an eyebrow.  “I don’t see you telling me anything else, aside from what color her panties were every day this week.”

“I know she’s from Pontiac, Illinois, and she has two brothers, Gabriel and Cas-something-”  Dean paused, watching as Sam crossed his arms.  “What!  It’s kind of hard to remember her brother’s weird-ass name when somebody’s lips are wrapped around your cock and they’re using their tongue to-”

“Dean!”

“It was a damn good blowjob, Sammy, let me tell you-”

“No, don’t tell me,” said Sam, holding a hand out to stop Dean, and covering one of his ears with the other. 

“Anyway, we’ve got an appointment for tomorrow afternoon, and she’s going to show me this trick she learned at sleep-away camp when she was seventeen,” began Dean.

Thankfully, Sam didn’t have to stop Dean from explaining whatever (likely gross) act he was about to explain (in great detail, probably), because Doctor Sexy chose that moment to poke his head in.

“Mr. Winchester, I’d like you to meet Tessa, she’ll be in charge of you for the remaining three days of your stay.”

A petite nurse sporting a bob-cut walked in, smiling kindly at Dean.  “Hi, Dean,” she said.

“Uh, hi,” said Dean distractedly. “Not to pry, but… um… where’s Anna?”

“Ah, she’s no longer employed here,” said Doctor Sexy.  He scribbled something on a clipboard, which he handed to Tessa, and with a curt nod, he walked out the door.

Sam’s eyes darted between Dean and Tessa, before he stood up and followed the doctor.  “I’ll be back in a bit.  Watch out for this one,” said Sam, pointing at Dean, who pointed at himself as if to say, _Who, me?_

“Will do, Mr. Winchester,” said Tessa.  She walked over towards Dean, pausing only to place her clipboard on top of a clear surface.

Tessa leaned over Dean’s bedside, inspecting machine monitoring his vital conditions, looking down at Dean.  “Don’t tell anyone I told you,” said Tessa so quietly that Dean almost missed it, “But Anna supposedly was ignoring the head doctors and administering her own treatments to the patients.”

“Oh,” said Dean.  “So, it wasn’t for any… other reasons?”

“If you’re referring to the fact that she was sleeping with you, then no,” said Tessa, completely unfazed by the sudden turn in the conversation and the fact that she was now lifting up Dean’s shirt.

“How did you… I mean, I wasn’t… we didn’t… what are you…?” sputtered Dean, struggling to cover his tracks.

“Everyone knew, Dean.”  He winced as she gently prodded at the bandage covering his shoulder wound.  “Does that hurt?”

“A little,” admitted Dean.  His mind refocused on the more important topic.  “But how did you know?”

“You two weren’t exactly secretive about it.”

Tessa wandered across the hallway to a medical supply closet, one that Dean had learned the ins-and-outs of last Tuesday.  She returned with some gauze, alcohol, and iodine.  Dean watched as she peeled back the old bandages to reveal his healing bullet wound, which had begun to turn soft and swollen over the course of two weeks.

“It was quite obvious – medicine doesn’t just spill itself, you know.”

Dean grimaced when she dabbed a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol onto the wound, cleansing it from germs.  She wiped it dry, and then applied a thin coating of iodine.  Then, she patted a bandage on it, and tore strips of medical tape from the role, gently applying them to overlap the gauze pad and onto his skin.  Dean was pleased to see that his normal tanned skin-tone was returning.   The pasty white color he had been before was beginning to creep him out.  He felt like some sort of weird undead zombie or something.

“And, don’t get me started on the questionable stains that magically appeared on some of the previously clean sheets.”

Tessa moved to the wound on Dean’s right hip, pulling down his hospital pants an inch to better access the wound.

“Woah, getting a little personal there,” said Dean, startling at the cool fingers on his sensitive skin.  “Maybe later we can-”

“Save it, Dean, I’m taken.”

Dean grinned.  “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“There is no guy,” Tessa said.  Dean winced when Tessa patted the gauze pad a little firmer than necessary.

“Gotcha, I didn’t mean to offend.  Who’s the lucky girl then?”

“There is no girl.”  Tessa stripped off her gloves and put them in the trash bin.  “Or any alien, before you go and get any ideas.”

Dean grumbled a half-hearted protest, mumbling something about “not being that rude.”  He studied her for a moment.  “Are you just yanking my chain, then?”

“No, Dean, I’m married to my job.” Tessa glared at Dean as he began to shake with laughter.  “It’s very important to me.”

“Oh… you’re serious,” said Dean, halting his laughter.  He threw his hands up in mock-defense.  “Hey, no judgment from me.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think?”  Tessa picked up the clipboard again, flipping over a few pages and making some notes.  “Let’s get back on topic, shall we?  How does it feel when you walk around?”

“Uh, good, I guess,” Dean mumbled.

“Any discomfort?  Pain? Stiffness?” asked Tessa.  She glanced up at Dean and back down to the paper.

“A little, when I’m moving for too long.  And sometimes my shoulder really hurts if I lift it too high.”

Tessa reached out to press her thumb into Dean’s shoulder joint.  “Does this cause pain?”  When Dean shook his head no, she moved her thumb up a few millimeters.  “Here?”  Tessa continued to repeat the process, marking down Dean’s answers, and occasionally asking him to flex his arm or move his shoulders.  “Well, some pain is to be expected, and you may have a limited range of movement – it may be permanent, it may not, but it all depends.  Hang in there, Dean, you’ve only got a few more days left in here.  Then you can go back to having your pick of Kansas Cuties.”  She gave Dean a knowing smile before closing the door on her way out.

Tessa suggested Dean for an early release by one day, which didn't make too much of a difference, but Dean gave her a grateful smile as he signed himself out of the hospital under Sam’s watchful eye.  Everything was just too damned _clean_ for Dean’s taste, and he needed to spend some quality time in his old room with a t-shirt littered bed and a book-cluttered floor.  And some pie.  He could definitely go for some pie.

Unfortunately, Sam was having none of Dean’s crap, and all but dragged Dean into the nearest health food store.  “If you’re not going to be exercising off your calories, you need to eat right,” said Sam, picking out some sort of vegetable Dean could swear wasn’t edible.

“I do eat right,” complained Dean.

“Pie isn’t a food group.”

“I never said it was.  It does have fruit in it though,” said Dean, picking up an apple pie with a label that claimed it was organic.  “See, look – organic.  You know the saying, Sammy: an apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Sam rolled his eyes and pulled Dean by the arm out of the isle.  “Hey, careful of the invalid!”

“Remind me to never bring you grocery shopping again,” Sam said.

Dean sat pouting for the remainder of the car ride back to their family home, his mood only worsened by the news that he wouldn’t be allowed to drive for a few weeks, and that his travels would be confined to Sam’s pathetic Charger, since he wasn’t willing to let Sam drive Baby.

“So,” Sam said tentatively.  “What are you going to do for your time off?”

“I dunno,” said Dean, shrugging.  He didn’t feel like talking about his condition any more than he had to.

Sam, however, persisted.  “Do you think you’ll try and finish your degree?”

“I guess I could.”

“You should.  It’ll be good for you, Dean.”

Dean nodded distractedly.

“Besides, I’ve been talking to Ellen, and she said that if you were to complete your Medical Degree, you could return as a field medic instead of a soldier.”

“I don’t know, Sammy…”

“C’mon Dean, it’ll help me sleep better at night.”

“Yeah but-”

“But what?”

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair.  He mentally reminded himself to get a haircut, as it had grown longer than the short-cropped style he preferred. 

“Dean, you can tell me.”

“I just feel like I don’t deserve it.”

“Deserve what?”

“Being a doctor, helping people.  It feels… wrong.  I’ve killed so many people and they’re what, an afterthought?”

“Of course not, Dean.  You don’t just forget something like that.”

“Exactly.  How am I supposed to just drop what I did and become something else?”

“You can’t hold yourself responsible forever.  It’s war.  People get hurt for the greater good.”

“Yeah well maybe I don’t care about the greater good!” shouted Dean, slamming his fist on the car dashboard.  Sam startled, swerving in and out of his lane.  “Sorry… I just…”

“Dean, it’s okay.  I don’t expect you to just miraculously get over what happened out there, and I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want to do,” said Sam, his eyes darting between the road and checking Dean’s face for unspoken emotions.  “Maybe it might help to think of it this way.  If we’re going by your logic, I shouldn’t be able to become a lawyer.”

“What are you talking about, Sammy? You’re going to make a great lawyer,” said Dean.

“Okay, but what about that time when I lied to mom and told her that you were the one who broke her favorite picture frame.”

Dean gave a tiny smile.  “She grounded me for a week and you felt guilty as hell. Then you tried to make it up to me by sneaking me slices of pie after dinner, even though dad banned me from dessert, too.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, who was now smiling fondly as well.  “See?  We all have our faults.”

“I guess,” Dean admitted.  “I don’t know, I just feel like…” Sam watched Dean expectantly.  “I just feel really shitty, and I don’t really know what I’m going to do.”

“Alright, Dean, you don’t need to give me an answer right now.”  Sam pulled the car into the driveway.  “Just, promise me you’ll consider things, okay?”

“I will,” said Dean.  Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door, intending to get out of the car, but Dean’s hand closed around his wrist.  “Thank you, Sammy.”

“No problem, Dean.”

“I mean it, Sam.  I really mean it.  I owe you.”

Sam gave him a quick smile.  “You’re welcome.  You can make it up to me by carrying in some of the groceries.”

“I can’t carry anything heavy, you know that,” said Dean, frowning.

“I know.  That’s why you get to carry all the toilet paper mom decided to stock up on,” Sam said, piling two cases of toilet paper into Dean’s arms.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

* * *

 

Dean decided to go back to school, after all.  The days at home were growing increasingly boring - so boring, in fact, that he'd started watching Spanish soap operas.  And he didn't even speak Spanish.  He hopped off the couch one day, booted up the computer, and registered for some classes to complete his degree.

Back in Switzerland, medical school had completely escaped his mind.  After all, it was a little hard to be worrying about the proper heart rate of an average grown man when Dean’s own heartbeat was racing from dodging bullets.  That being said, when Dean found himself settling into the biology lab for his first class of his final semester, he felt like a kindergartener afraid to leave home for the first time.

A girl with wavy light brown hair slid into the seat next to him, eyeing him up and down.  “It’s not polite to stare, you know,” she said simply, flipping her hair over her shoulder.  “Bela Talbot.”  She extended her hand with her perfectly manicured nails, her numerous bracelets clinking together as she did so.

“Dean,” he said, accepting the handshake. 

“Are you a transfer?  I haven’t seen you around before.  Unless you’re incredibly smart…” she narrowed her eyes, examining Dean, and added, “Or something.”

“No, no, I’m a transfer,” lied Dean, not wanting to explain his entire history to some random girl he’d just met.

Bela tore a piece of paper from her planner and scribbled something in black ink.  “My phone number,” she explained.  “In case you need someone to show you around.” 

Dean gave her a forced half-smile and made a show of folding the paper into his pocket.  Luckily, the professor chose that moment to enter the lab, happily pronouncing that “the person sitting next to you is your lab partner.  You two will be great friends, I just know it!  You can make hot chocolate and have study dates!”

It took all of Dean’s strength not to roll his eyes at the professor.  If there was one thing he hated more than anything, it was people who were all too enthusiastic at obscene hours of the morning.   Which was pretty much any time earlier than noon for Dean.

Although Dean would never admit it, the cheery professor was right.  He became close friends with Bela over the next month – if close friends included occasionally making out in the back of Bela’s shiny silver Mercedes.  Despite the distraction of their constant fooling around, Bela somehow managed to actually impress Dean with her knowledge, and Dean found his grades significantly improving.

“I’ll be right back,” said Bela one day while they were studying, pushing her chair back from the table as her phone rang.  Dean nodded absently, reaching across the table for her notebook.

He began flipping through her notes, comparing them with his own to make sure he hadn’t missed anything in class.  Dean copied a practice problem into his notebook, accidentally elbowing Bela’s notebook onto the floor.  Several sheets of paper scattered over the floor.  Dean bent out of his chair to pick them up.  His eye caught on one particular clump of papers stapled together, bearing both red and black ink.

Dean read it carefully, and his suspicions were slowly confirmed.  Bela had somehow gotten the answer key for yesterday’s test.  Dean gulped, debating whether or not to just ignore the paper and shove it back into Bela’s notebook, or to call her out on cheating.  If he ignored it, he could be pinned down for cheating as well, but if he handed her in… who knew what Bela would do.  In the end, his conscience won him over, and he met Bela’s eyes as she strode back into the room.

“Sorry, business call,” she said simply, settling back down into her seat.

Dean licked his lips nervously.  “Bela,” he said slowly.

“Yes, Dean?” she asked, not even looking up from whoever she was emailing on her Blackberry.

“What is this?”

Bela’s eyes snapped up, flicking from the papers, to her notebook, which was still lying on the floor, and finally back up to meet Dean’s eyes.  “Give that to me now, Winchester.”

“No.”

“You don’t want to make me angry,” she said, her glare hardening.

Dean ignored her threat and asked, “Have you been getting the tests ahead of time?”

“So what if I have?  You can’t complain.  We both know your grades have improved.”

“At what cost?  I’m not a cheater, Bela,” said Dean.

“Ah, look, it has a moral compass.  How charming.”

“I’m being serious, Bela.  You can’t do this.”

Bela gave a bone-chilling smile.  “Dean, honey, if you know what’s good for you and your reputation, you’ll keep your mouth shut and go back to studying.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You need my help and you know it.”

“Bela, if your help means cheating, I don’t want it,” said Dean, gathering his books and shoving them into his backpack.  “For your sake, I hope you use your own nonexistent ‘moral compass’ and think about what you’re doing.”

Dean stormed out of the room, not caring that the door slammed behind him on the way out, causing a few students to startle and stare at him as he passed.  “Sorry,” he grumbled, hurrying out of the library.

Bela didn’t call him later that afternoon.

She didn’t call him the next day.

Or the day after.

She still showed up to lab, though, causing the next few weeks of lab to be tense.  Dean constantly felt Bela’s eyes on him, and he lived in constant fear of her revenge.  On rare occasions, she would still try and talk to Dean, saying things like, “When this is over, we should totally have angry makeup sex.”

When he still ignored Bela’s advances, he noticed her gradually getting closer to another student in the class, who he was ashamed to admit he didn’t even know the name of.  Dean chose to ignore the way she’d walk with him out of class, leaning over to whisper in his ear and meeting Dean’s eye as she spoke.

Dean eventually grew sick of Bela’s antics and arrived early to the next lab to request a seat change with the professor.

“You two aren’t best friends by now?  I must have done something wrong!” exclaimed the professor.

“Look, sir,” said Dean.  “It’s complicated.  So could you please just move my seat?”

“Oh-ho-ho,” the man said, “Young love, is it?  Such a shame.”

Dean cleared his throat.  “The seat?”

“Ah, yes, Ms. Ava Wilson is unhappy with her partner as well.  The two of you may switch seats, if you wish.”

“Thanks,” said Dean, returning to his new seat.  Ava, a peppy brunette with a flowery notebook and pink pen, looked pleasantly surprised and introduced herself with a shy smile.   For a while, everything was fine.  Ava was a decent lab partner – she always did her work, even if she did make a few errors from time to time.

Then, two weeks before finals, Bela failed to show up for class.  For three days straight.  On the fourth day of her absence, Dean asked Ava what she’d heard about Bela.

“Oh yeah,” she said in reply, “Weren’t you guys like… a thing?”

“I guess,” said Dean sourly, trying not to think about his time with Bela.  He focused on cleaning the glass beaker they had just finished using in their experiment.

“Well, she got kicked out for cheating.  Turned out that she was only in med school that she could meet some rich guys and be a trophy wife.”  Ava leaned closer and whispered, “I heard that she got her Mercedes with the money she stole from one of her ex-boyfriends.”

Dean raised his eyebrows and said, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” answered Ava.  “She was one sleazy chick.”  The corner of Dean’s mouth quirked up sadly and he studied his hands.  “Oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply!”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Dean said, waving her off.

Ava gave him a small smile. “If you want, you can study with me and Andy sometime.”  Dean was reluctant.  The last time he’d studied with someone, it hadn’t turned out so well.  Sensing his hesitation, Ava joked, “There won’t be any cheating, don’t worry.”

Dean gave a small laugh.  “Alright, I guess, if you insist.”

“I do insist.”

With Ava’s help, Dean passed all his finals – without cheating.  He smiled happily as he received his diploma at graduation, shooting a glance to the general direction of his family.  The crowd was too large for him to find them, but Mary eagerly flipped through photos on her digital camera, showing them to Dean and exclaiming that he was looking right at the camera.   John proudly clapped Dean on the shoulder, which caused Dean to have to hide his smile for the sake of looking manly.

Sam tried to take the bitchy way out, extending his hand to Dean for a firm handshake, but Dean wrapped him in a hug before Sam could protest.  Sam reluctantly hugged back, jokingly telling Dean to stop being so clingy.

The brothers even posed for a few pictures for Mary, whose camera was clicking away furiously as the shutter opened and closed.  “My two little boys, all grown up!  A doctor and a lawyer, too!”

“Do you think Mom could be any prouder?” asked Dean, talking through his teeth as he continued to smile for the camera.

“I know,” replied Sam.  “If I hear one more of her friends ask whether I’m the doctor or the lawyer, I’m going to go insane.”

“Alright sweetie, go have fun with your friends and try not to stay out too late!” said Mary, finally releasing Dean from the torture of photo sessions.  He unzipped his graduation gown, folding it neatly and handing it to Mary, before dashing off to go catch up with Andy and Ava.

* * *

 

Despite his massive hangover, Dean drove to the enlistment office the next morning, filing the paperwork to be a field doctor.  The receptionist flirted shamelessly with Dean when he asked for the forms, her interest growing considerably when he clarified that he needed the medical enlistment forms.  He toned down his charm after that, because Bela’s stunt came immediately to mind.

Dean received a call for his services before the week’s end.  Apparently the army was in even more need of doctors than they were for soldiers.  He reluctantly packed his bags, not having expected to leave so soon.

“At least you don’t have to worry about me being shot,” Dean suggested half-heartedly to Sam, who was brooding over Dean’s departure.

“I’ll still worry, though.  Take care of yourself, Dean.”

“Will do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for putting up with me, and sorry for the delayed chapters!
> 
> I also think I'm going to add another war scene between Chapters 2 and 3, as a treat for you guys being so awesome.
> 
> **Story on hold until further notice! Sorry for the inconvenience, but I had to drop this story due to school, and I've since forgotten a lot of the plot bunnies that were floating around, so until I re-outline and find the time to continue, this won't be updated!**


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